


Revelation

by lamardeuse



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin waits for Arthur's return one winter's night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelation

The first snow of the season was falling on Camelot, fat flakes fluttering to earth illuminated by the full moon, as Merlin watched Arthur ride into the courtyard. He and his hunting party had been gone a fortnight, and Merlin had spent the last two hours preparing for him, putting the final touches on his chambers and keeping his bath water hot with an occasional whispered word. An early outbreak of fever in the town – nothing severe, but still troublesome – had kept him from accompanying Arthur on the trip; Gaius and the people had needed him more, and of course Arthur had agreed to leave him behind.

 

Merlin was surprised when he felt himself growing more out of sorts as the days wore on, and at first he was at a loss to determine the cause. Certainly, delivering medicines to the sick had him running from highest parapet to lowest hovel, but it was satisfying, necessary work, and Merlin usually enjoyed feeling useful. And then one morning he passed by Arthur's chambers and found himself lingering in the room, tidying a bed already made and rearranging curtains already drawn. He paused by the window, smiling at a memory of Arthur laughing over a ridiculous joke Merlin had heard from the stable boy the day he left on his trip. He'd been standing in this very spot, the sunlight limning his golden hair, and he had turned to Merlin with a broad, brilliant smile. Remembering that moment now made Merlin's chest ache with something he found hard to name, for the strength of it was like nothing he'd known before.

 

And then he felt a dawning horror as the truth came clear: after barely more than a week without him, he missed Arthur with a force that staggered him.

 

He plunked himself down at the table, rested his elbows on it, and glared accusingly at Arthur's fur-covered chair.

 

"I was right all along," Merlin said darkly. "You are a prat."

 

The chair refused to answer, merely sitting there smugly.

 

_Typical_, thought Merlin.

 

That had been five days ago, and in that time Merlin had failed utterly to come to terms with his newfound knowledge. Against his will and all good sense, the longing within him had grown like an excess of a humour until he'd actually considered leeches or some other dire remedy to restore him to his proper balance. In the end, he'd had to deny himself entry to Arthur's chambers until he was forced to prepare for his return, because he'd lose an hour in there plumping Arthur's pillows and running his hand over the smooth wood of the furniture.

 

Really, it was disgusting.

 

As Merlin watched the hunting party assemble, he thought briefly about leaving before Arthur arrived. After all, it was the middle of the night, and everything had been prepared to Arthur's liking; Merlin had even turned down the bed and laid out fresh nightclothes. Arthur might grumble a bit in the morning about Merlin's lazy arse sleeping when he should have been tending to his master's whims, but at least he could put off seeing Arthur, and possibly revealing his utterly humiliating state, for another few hours.

 

Unfortunately, there was one vital flaw in this plan: Merlin wanted to see Arthur now. In fact, he wanted to clap eyes on him so badly he was practically aching with it, and the anticipation was killing him by inches. He wasn't sure he'd survive to morning if he didn't see him the moment he walked through that door.

 

Before he could decide properly either way, the door flew open and Arthur strode in, his hood still covering his face. His gait carried an undercurrent of weariness and his cloak was covered in rapidly melting snow, and Merlin's heart leapt in his chest, annoyingly.

 

And then Arthur pushed back his hood, and Merlin sucked in a breath because bloody hell, Arthur had grown a beard. It was a shade darker than his hair with hints of red, and in the dim light it made him look years older, like the king Merlin would serve someday. It was all Merlin could do to keep from crossing the room to put his hands on Arthur's face in order to convince himself it was really him, to lean close and whisper his fealty against Arthur's skin.

 

"Oh," Arthur said, his eyes raking over Merlin as though he were searching for something. "You're here."

 

"Yep," Merlin said, spreading his hands. "Here I am." Oh, that was idiotic.

 

"Yes, so you are," Arthur said absently, his gaze still fixed on Merlin with an intensity that made him feel hot and chilled at the same time. Merlin remained frozen to the spot until Arthur cleared his throat and said, "Well? Were you planning to stand there all night, or were you actually going to do your job?"

 

Merlin shook himself, because of course Arthur was only waiting for him to hop to it. He jerked into motion, crossing the room to put his hands on Arthur, though with efficient, impartial servant's hands, rather than the ones he wanted to use. He removed Arthur's cloak, turned to shake off the worst of the snow and drape it over a chair near the fire, then turned back to help him with his overcoat and jerkin.

 

"How is the progress of the fever?" Arthur asked, as Merlin's fingers fumbled with his buttons.

 

"Nearly spent. There have been no new cases for three days."

 

"Good," Arthur said, with the satisfaction of one who was charged with the safekeeping of a kingdom. "You and Gaius are to be commended."

 

Merlin shrugged, inwardly reeling at the compliment. "I just did whatever Gaius told me to do."

 

Arthur's mouth twisted. "What a refreshing change of pace." The words had no sting in them, though, and the familiarity of their teasing made Merlin's head feel light with joy. He pushed the jerkin off Arthur's shoulders, then began on the shirt, but Arthur stepped back and shook his head.

 

"I can manage the rest," he said gruffly, turning away, and Merlin nodded, unsure as to whether or not that was a dismissal, but unwilling to go unless explicitly told to. Merlin gulped as the pale expanse of Arthur's back was revealed, then busied himself with pretending to check the temperature of the bath.

 

"Not boiling this time, I hope," Arthur murmured. Merlin risked a glance at him, intending to deliver a sarcastic reply, but the words died in his throat. Arthur was standing before him, naked and utterly magnificent, golden in the firelight. Finally, he managed a shake of his head, and shuffled backwards awkwardly so that Arthur could get in the tub.

 

Arthur sank into the bath with a deep, animal groan of pleasure that made Merlin's cheeks blush and his palms sweat. "Dear God, that feels incredible," Arthur sighed, tipping his head back against the rim of the tub. Belatedly, Merlin scrambled to wad up a towel and place it under his head. As he leaned down, his face came close to Arthur's and their gazes locked. Arthur's gaze was wide and almost – Merlin hesitated to say apprehensive, but that's how it seemed to him – and his mouth, framed by the mustache and beard, was slightly parted, full and pink and –

 

"Is it – erm," Merlin croaked. "The right temperature, then?"

 

"Yes, it's – perfect," Arthur murmured. His gaze flickered down, away from Merlin's eyes, then back up again.

 

Merlin realised he was still holding the towel, and thus his hands were bracketing Arthur's head. All he had to do was move them a little and his fingers would be curling in Arthur's hair –

 

"Fetch me that wine, will you?" Arthur demanded, voice far too loud for the little distance between them, and Merlin jerked as though he'd been struck.

 

"Yes, certainly," he managed, stumbling on suddenly wobbly legs over to the table and snatching up the goblet. Arthur took it from him with a murmur of thanks, not looking at him, and drank a long draught.

 

"If you would be so kind as to stay," Arthur said, "I have a couple more tasks for you before the night is through. However, on the morrow I won't be needing you until the afternoon."

 

Merlin didn't point out that technically it already was the morrow, only bobbed his head and said, "Of course, sire." When no further response was forthcoming, Merlin began a tour of Arthur's chambers, fiddling with Arthur's things and absently dusting surfaces already dusted thrice over with a cloth. Arthur took so long in the bath that Merlin wondered if he'd fallen asleep, but then a small splash or a creak of the tub's wooden walls would let him know Arthur was still conscious. Looking directly at Arthur to check on him was out of the question, because seeing him like that, all relaxed and pink-skinned, with the beard and – and everything – would surely be too much for Merlin's already overburdened senses.

 

Finally, Merlin heard a great splash, and turned just in time to see Arthur rising from the bath, water slopping over the rim of the tub as he gained his feet. He took a step forward to fetch him a towel as he'd done dozens of times before, but Arthur was already padding over to the chair over which it had been draped.

 

Merlin stopped, fisting his hands at his sides. Yes, well, that was probably for the best.

 

Arthur dressed himself as well, in the night shirt and light sleeping trousers Merlin had laid out for him on the bed. Merlin was about to open his mouth to ask an insolent question, because really, if Arthur was going to do everything for himself, why was he here? – when Arthur turned round and said, "Fetch my razor, would you?"

 

Merlin frowned, but did as he was asked, bringing a cup of water and some soap for lather as well. "You want to shave now?" he asked.

 

Arthur collapsed into a chair and scratched at his chin. "Yes, this bloody beard is driving me mad. It itches terribly."

 

Oh God, no, he couldn't, Merlin thought, bottom dropping out of his stomach. "That's just a phase," Merlin blurted. "It'll be fine in a few more days."

 

Arthur fixed him with a baleful eye. "And what would you know about growing beards, Merlin?" he demanded.

 

"Well, that's what I've heard," Merlin muttered.

 

"Be that as it may," Arthur said, "I want it off." He tipped his head against the back of the chair, exposing his throat and the knob of his Adam's apple. "Unfortunately, I'm so exhausted I'll probably lop my own head off if I try to do it myself."

 

"You want me to fetch Tim? At this hour?" The royal barber was doubtless fast asleep; Arthur usually treated servants with more consideration.

 

"No, of course not," Arthur said impatiently, waving a hand. "That's what I want you for."

 

Merlin gulped as the meaning of this sank in. "You want _me_ to – but I'm not a barber!"

 

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," Arthur sighed, "it's not that bloody difficult. I presume you _do_ shave now and then?"

 

"I – I shave all the time!" Merlin exclaimed. At least twice a week, sometimes even three lately. "But I've never shaved someone else. The angle's all –" he gestured, trying to demonstrate "– different."

 

Arthur cocked a disdainful eyebrow at him. "Merlin," he said simply, voice low and dangerous, and Merlin's trousers suddenly got a bit tighter. Alright, that was just about enough of _that_, he told his traitorous prick.

 

"Yes, fine, I will," he murmured, because it was easier to give in. Perhaps he'd get lucky and slit his own throat before he managed to do it to Arthur's.

 

He took as much time as possible working up the lather in the cup, hoping Arthur would fall asleep before they could get to the actual shaving. He'd wrapped a hot, damp towel around Arthur's face the way he'd seen Tim do now and then, and he hoped this would have a soporific effect. He had no such luck, though, because as he stirred the lather about, Arthur ripped the towel from his face and snapped, "You will actually get started before the beard is down to my knees, will you?"

 

In lieu of a verbal retort, Merlin picked up the cup and brush and dabbed a generous amount of foam onto Arthur's upper lip, making it impossible for him to speak further without getting a mouthful of soap. Arthur glared up at him, and Merlin continued to distribute the lather over his cheeks and chin, deciding to leave his neck for later. Picking up the razor, he balanced it in his hand, then tried an experimental swipe over his own dry cheek, just to get a feel for the way it handled.

 

Taking a deep breath, he stepped up to Arthur and stared at him, trying to figure out how to do this properly. He angled the razor this way and that, holding it a few inches from Arthur's cheek, experimenting with the stroke, but nothing seemed right. Finally, a light dawned. It just might work if he were behind Arthur – then it could be almost like shaving his own face – but he couldn't manage it if the other man were sat in that high-backed chair.

 

"Look, could you, erm, stand up for a moment?" Merlin said. "Please?" Arthur blinked at him, more puzzled than annoyed, and miraculously did as he was asked. Hastily, Merlin grabbed the old Roman-style folding campaign chair that was sitting in the corner and dragged it over in front of the fire. There, that was perfect; he'd even have more light. He gestured at the chair with a flourish; Arthur sighed the sigh of the eternally put-upon, but sat down all the same.

 

Feeling decidedly more confident, Merlin stepped up behind Arthur and gently tipped his head back with a hand cupped across his forehead. The back of Arthur's skull rested perfectly in the hollow of Merlin's ribcage, and his blue eyes stared up at Merlin. Merlin stared back, the implicit trust of the position striking him like a blow.

 

_You wouldn't let me do this if you knew what I was_, Merlin thought, still holding Arthur's gaze. Swallowing, he leaned forward slightly and positioned the razor for the first stroke, the blade resting against Arthur's cheek just below the bone. Merlin's free hand reached under Arthur's jaw and gripped his chin, fingertips slipping a little on the soap before gaining a firmer hold, and then he scraped the razor over Arthur's skin.

 

There were, mercifully, no great gouts of blood, only the satisfying glide of the metal as it did its job. Hugely relieved, Merlin wiped the blade clean on the towel draped over his shoulder, then poised for another stroke, then another.

 

Merlin wasn't sure if it was more from overconfidence or lack of skill, but on the fourth stroke he nicked Arthur's cheek. Not severely – not even enough for Arthur to have noticed it – but Merlin saw the blood well up from the tiny wound and bit back a gasp. Hastily, lest Arthur discover it, he swept two fingers over Arthur's skin and knit the gash closed.

 

Merlin had learned a great deal about spells in the past two years, but he had not entirely given up using wordless magic; the trouble with it was that words gave the magic form and helped to harness the power, whereas the magic he had practiced unthinkingly since early childhood was unpredictable, difficult to control. When Merlin employed it in the performance of delicate work like this, he often found that some of it, for want of a better term, leaked out around the edges, thus increasing the likelihood of detection. As he touched Arthur's cheek and the blood disappeared, he felt Arthur jerk under him and froze. Had Arthur felt the magic moving over his skin, healing it?

 

Then Arthur looked up at him again, and even from this upside-down position, Merlin could easily recognise the raised eyebrow that meant _Get on with it_; he'd certainly seen it often enough. Nodding as though Arthur had issued a spoken command, he continued with his task.

 

He managed two more strokes before nicking Arthur again, and this time there was no reaction on Arthur's part when Merlin healed him. In fact, he closed his eyes, clearly close to succumbing to exhaustion.

 

Once he'd finished the planes of Arthur's cheeks, he debated with himself about what to do next. Arthur's chin, upper lip and jaw were not only harder to shave, but more heavily bearded; Merlin was not looking forward to any of them. He finally decided on the jaw, and used his free hand to position Arthur's head so that it was angled to the right, making it easier to shave his left side.

 

He managed two strokes before cutting Arthur. It was a shallow gash, but it was larger than the first two, and Merlin gasped at the three-inch line of blood that appeared. Arthur's eyes flew open at that, and he looked a question at Merlin. His hand began to rise to his cheek; Merlin shook his head frantically, trying to ward him off.

 

"Fine, it's fine," he babbled, fingertips tracing the line, sealing it quickly. Arthur's hand dropped and his eyes fluttered shut again and Merlin felt a tremor go through his shoulders where they rested against Merlin's belly. Cursing his clumsiness, Merlin devoted his full concentration to the task, but though he shaved Arthur's jaw with the utmost care, he still continued to nick Arthur on approximately every third stroke. Arthur's eyes remained shut, which was a small blessing, at least, but Merlin noticed that his breathing grew more shallow and the shivering occurred whenever Merlin's magic touched his skin. By the time Merlin was finishing Arthur's chin, he was shaking nearly as much as Arthur was, and his own breathing was uneven from trying to control his power.

 

Merlin took the towel off his shoulder and swept it over Arthur's upper lip and mouth, removing the last of the lather. "I'm sorry," he murmured, when Arthur's eyes opened, "that's all I can do." He tried to smile. "Unless you want to risk losing your nose." When Arthur made no response, merely stared up at him blankly, Merlin pulled his hand away. Or at least he tried, because suddenly his wrist was encased in a grip of iron.

 

"Wh –" Merlin began.

 

"Fetch the looking-glass," Arthur said lowly, releasing him.

 

Merlin swallowed and obeyed. Arthur stood, then took the glass from Merlin and studied himself from all angles while Merlin's heart pounded in his chest.

 

"Sometimes I wonder," Arthur said, still looking in the glass, "if you think me a complete idiot."

 

Merlin frowned.

 

"I received my first sword wound when I was six years old. Gaius worried for a while that I might lose the use of my arm." He set down the mirror and turned to Merlin. "You cut me eleven times. And yet there is not a mark on me anywhere. Not a drop of blood."

 

"I –" Merlin began.

 

"Think carefully," Arthur interrupted, still with that uncharacteristic calm, "before you lie to me again."

 

Merlin stared at him in shock. "You knew."

 

Arthur nodded curtly. "I've suspected."

 

Merlin took a step forward. In some dim recess of his brain, he knew he ought to be terrified, but instead he was fascinated, drawn to Arthur like a moth to a flame. "For how long?"

 

Arthur lifted his chin. "About a month now. There was no way that giant could have been felled solely by my spear. And then suddenly, quite a few other things began to make sense."

 

"You – for a _month_?" Merlin spluttered. "But –"

 

"But what?" Arthur snapped.

 

Merlin took another step, and Arthur's eyes widened slightly. "But you gave me a bloody great razor!" he exclaimed.

 

Arthur snorted. "I imagine if you'd wanted to kill me you would have done so long before this. And you would have employed a much less prosaic method." He held Merlin's gaze. "Besides, you wouldn't keep saving my life if you wanted me dead, would you?"

 

Merlin was nearly toe to toe with Arthur now. His hands twitched at his sides, eager for something he couldn't yet name. Arthur still trusted him; that only left one question. "You don't hate me?"

 

Arthur met Merlin's gaze steadily and murmured, "No. No, I don't. I was angry – still am, really – but after a fortnight in the woods to think about it, I can understand why you couldn't tell me."

 

To his utter embarrassment, Merlin's knees buckled at that, although to be fair he'd lived through three years of wondering if he could ever tell Arthur the truth, because in every scenario he could imagine, Arthur rejected him and he ended up on the chopping block like a chicken on market day, and now Arthur just knew and he wasn't screaming at him or summoning the guards, merely holding him up with strong arms encircling him and a bemused expression on his –

 

"Oh," Merlin said, realising his predicament. He tried to get his legs to function again and mostly succeeded, though Arthur's hands remained on Merlin's upper arms to steady him. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "It's just a bit of a relief, that's all."

 

Arthur shook him gently and stared into his eyes. "Swear to me you've only used it for good."

 

"I've – used it to keep you from harm," Merlin hedged, unable to say aught but the truth now, when the lies were falling like wheat before the scythe. "I can't say I've always been – proud of what I've had to do, or that it was exactly good."

 

Arthur frowned; clearly that hadn't been the answer he'd been expecting. "I'm sorry," he said.

 

"Don't be," Merlin said fiercely. "I'd do it all again, no matter the cost."

 

Arthur's eyes widened, and his fingers flexed on Merlin's arms; Merlin could feel the imprint of every fingertip and shuddered. "I could feel it touching me just now," he murmured. "Your magic." Merlin sucked in a breath, and Arthur continued. "I could feel it – _moving_ against my skin. Making me whole."

 

"Arthur," Merlin whispered, the name a question, not wanting to believe what he thought he was hearing.

 

"Merlin," Arthur said, the word a reply filled with so much fondness and exasperation that Merlin had no choice but to kiss him.

 

Arthur's reaction was instantaneous, fingers digging into Merlin's arms and pulling Merlin's body flush against his own. Merlin's hands grabbed fistfuls of the thin material of Arthur's night shirt where it covered his hips. The rough scrape of Arthur's moustache sent shivers through him, and the inquisitive glide of his tongue made Merlin groan and open for him, helpless with need.

 

"I knew it," Arthur said, smirking and drawing back to push Merlin's shirt up, scrape his nails over Merlin's lower belly, make him gasp. "You're mad about me."

 

Merlin would have been more indignant at that if he hadn't felt the evidence of Arthur's less than indifferent attitude poking him in the thigh a moment ago. Instead, he merely stripped off his shirt in one swift motion and started in on the buttons of Arthur's. "Most days I wish I weren't, believe me," he muttered, pausing to lick at a nipple as it was revealed.

 

Arthur's hands slid over Merlin's arse and tugged him close again. "I know the feeling," he growled. He dove in for another kiss, but Merlin evaded him.

 

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," Merlin said, grinning. "Did you just confess your undying love?"

 

Arthur looked like he'd swallowed one of Gaius' nasty medicines. "More like my eternal frustration," he huffed. "Could we stop talking about – rubbish and get to the good part?"

 

Still smiling, Merlin pressed his hand to the front of Arthur's trousers and was rewarded by a low groan and an uncontrolled buck of his hips. "Certainly, sire. Your wish is my command."

 

Arthur's head snapped up and his eyes narrowed, and Merlin had just enough time to realise that had probably been a stupid thing to say before Arthur picked him up effortlessly as though Merlin were a fainting damsel, strode over to the bed and flung him onto it with such violence that he bounced twice. He was headed for a third bounce when Arthur flung himself on top of him, pinning him down and gazing down at him, panting.

 

"Not – so exhausted, then," Merlin squeaked, as Arthur's hands pressed his wrists into the mattress on either side of his head.

 

"I seem to have acquired my second wind," Arthur drawled, a wicked smile twisting his lips. Merlin's cock twitched in his pants as Arthur settled over him, a warm, heavy weight, familiar and yet not, dear and yet dangerous.

 

Arthur leaned close and nosed along Merlin's jaw; Merlin tried to turn his head to angle for a kiss, but all he got was a face full of Arthur's soft hair.

 

"This is an illusion, isn't it," Arthur murmured, as he sucked kisses down Merlin's neck, over his collarbone. "One word from you, one thought, and I'd be flat on my back."

 

Merlin went still, hands clenching, still caught in Arthur's grip. "Yes," he whispered.

 

Arthur bit down on a nipple, not entirely gently, and Merlin arched beneath him. "Then why don't you?"

 

Merlin shook his head, stared up at the canopy. "I – " The words lodged in his throat; Arthur didn't want to talk about feelings any longer, and everything else sounded wrong.

 

Releasing his wrists, Arthur shifted over him so that their faces were only inches apart. "Who's the servant now," he murmured, frowning in thought, "and who is the master?"

 

Hesitating only for a moment, Merlin cupped Arthur's face in his hands, wanting to erase the doubt he saw there. "I never served you because I feared you, Arthur," he murmured. "And I told you I would serve you until the day I die. I was a sorcerer then, remember."

 

But Arthur was still frowning down at him. "Why? Why would you do this?"

 

Merlin gazed up at him for a moment, then carded his fingers through Arthur's fine hair. "Pardon me for saying, sire, but if you have to ask, I don't believe you've been paying attention."

 

Arthur stared at him, the frown slowly fading into something like wonder. Merlin's fingers touched his cheeks, his chin, glided over the incredible softness of his lips, the rough catch of his moustache, until Arthur sat up and began tearing at his trouser buttons.

 

"Alright, that's enough talking," Arthur huffed, and Merlin smiled. He couldn't have agreed more.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Merlin woke in stages, the warm cocoon of his bed making it difficult to muster any enthusiasm for leaving it. Eyes still closed, he wondered briefly what time it was, and why Gaius hadn't burst through the door yet, demanding that he get to work. If only the mattress weren't so decadently soft...

 

His eyes flew open. His mattress wasn't soft, and his bed was certainly never this warm.

 

Oh, bloody hell. He was – they were – they had – and Arthur _knew_ –

 

"Mmmmm," Arthur purred, his arm sliding around Merlin's waist from behind and pulling him effortlessly until their bodies were pressed back to front, "shut up."

"I didn't say anything," Merlin grumbled. He tried to wriggle free of Arthur's grip, but this only resulted in a tightening of Arthur's hold. Merlin told himself he did not find Arthur's strength arousing, but his cock clearly held a differing opinion.

 

"I can hear you thinking," Arthur muttered. He nuzzled the back of Merlin's neck, planted a soft kiss there, then another. When Merlin stopped struggling, Arthur's grip loosened and his hand drifted lower.

 

"Arthur –" Merlin choked, but Arthur's hand had already closed around his cock, and Arthur's own was pressing against his cheeks.

 

Arthur shifted, bit his earlobe. "Are you too sore?" he whispered.

 

Merlin shivered, the memories coming flooding back, and shook his head jerkily. Arthur released Merlin's cock and started to roll away, doubtless to get the jar of salve he'd used last night. Merlin stopped him with a hand reaching back to grip his hip.

 

"No, you don't have to –" he blurted.

 

Arthur's hand covered Merlin's. "I don't want to hurt you," he said.

 

"You won't. I mean, I'm still –" he felt himself flush at the implication "– from last night –"

 

"Christ," Arthur growled, and then he was shoving Merlin's thigh forward and lining up and Merlin felt the blunt pressure of Arthur's cock pushing its way inside. Merlin groaned and threw his head back, and Arthur slid the rest of the way in until Merlin could feel him everywhere, filling him.

 

Arthur's hand was splayed over Merlin's lower belly, just above his aching cock, and he was panting against Merlin's shoulder as though he couldn't draw enough air. Merlin reached back and stroked Arthur's hair, his arm, any part of him he could reach. God, this was – it was –

 

"Slowly," Arthur said, and Merlin nodded frantically as Arthur drew back in agonising increments, then just as gradually pressed back in again. He repeated the pattern, his movements fluid and perfect and showing the incredible control Merlin had seen him exercise in battle.

 

"God, please," Merlin gasped, rocking back against him, and Arthur obliged him by finally touching his cock again, his strokes timed to his thrusts, tempo no match for Merlin's racing heart but still wonderful all the same, and he took Merlin again and again, fucking him until he cried out and spilled over Arthur's hand, until Arthur sighed and shook behind him and around him and inside him.

 

They lay like that for some time, spent, bodies entwined like ivy. Merlin let himself drift inside the circle of Arthur's arms, replaying each moment of the last few hours, examining it from all angles like a jewel held up to the light.

 

"Someone should light a fire," Arthur murmured sleepily against Merlin's hair.

 

"Mmmmm," Merlin agreed, drowsy and content.

 

"How I wish someone would do that," Arthur said wistfully. "Perhaps someone in this very room, even."

 

There was a pause as Merlin realised Arthur might well be serious; that barely five minutes after shagging, he was perfectly content to begin ordering him about again. Suddenly furious, he threw off the covers and sat up, but before he could get any further, Arthur's hand encircled his wrist, impeding his movements.

 

"Merlin," he said, exasperation clear in his tone, "surely you can light the fire _without leaving the bed_."

 

Merlin frowned. Well, of course he could; it just wasn't something he could do in front of...

 

...right. He could do that now.

 

"I'm an idiot," Merlin said sheepishly, diving back under the covers because bloody hell, it was cold.

 

"So I've always said," Arthur drawled, eyes dancing with merriment. Merlin glared at him for a moment, then stretched out his hand and whispered the spell. The wood in the tinder-box obligingly leapt into the hearth and arranged itself in a neat stack, then promptly burst into flame. When he turned back, Arthur was staring at him openly.

 

"What?" Merlin asked, a little defensively.

 

Arthur shook his head. "Your eyes," he breathed.

 

"Oh," Merlin said. "Yes, sorry, they, erm –" he gestured at his face "– do that."

 

Arthur said nothing, merely continued to stare at him as though he were an odd kind of bug. Sighing, Merlin tried to ignore the way his heart seized up. He might have known it would be too much to expect that Arthur would see him as anything but a freak once he'd actually watched him do magic. He was just contemplating ways he could escape from the room without losing every last shred of his dignity when Arthur finally found his voice once more.

 

"Do you, erm –" Arthur cleared his throat, looked away. "Do you suppose you could do something else?"

 

Merlin frowned. "You –" He shifted toward Arthur, and his leg brushed Arthur's thigh, along with something else under the blankets.

 

"Oh," Merlin said, light dawning. "Oh." The joy bubbled up inside him until he actually laughed with it, unable to stop himself.

 

Arthur's cheeks turned pink. "Never mind," he snapped.

 

"No," Merlin said, and suddenly Arthur was under him, eyes wide, breath catching as Merlin straddled his hips, as Merlin let the magic run free for Arthur to finally, finally see. "Your wish is my command, sire."


End file.
